


Tease

by timetospy



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), SPECTRE (2015), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Banter, Established Relationship, James can cook, M/M, Oral Sex, Strip Tease, bottom!Bond, sort of kind of not really - Freeform, top!Q
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 09:24:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6950551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timetospy/pseuds/timetospy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been a long day. Which isn’t an excuse for shouting, really, but Bond is leaning against Q’s desk, hands shoved into his pockets, which does things to the front placket of his trousers that Q would rather not be thinking about at the moment, but can’t seem to ignore, and his frustration is leaking out of his mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tease

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Castillon02](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castillon02/gifts).



> This is a [tumblr prompt](http://timetospy.tumblr.com/post/144791777649/prompt-top-q-teasing-bond-doesnt-have-to-be) given to me by the inestimable [castillon02](http://castillon02.tumblr.com/). I will forever be grateful for this, it was so fun!
> 
> And I can't forget the efforts of [jordankaine](http://jordankaine.tumblr.com/) who is quite possibly the most patient beta/editor in the world. ❤️

“Double-Oh-Seven, you  _ have _ no self-control!” Q shouts into a Q-branch gone uncharacteristically silent.

It’s been a long day. Which isn’t an excuse for shouting, really, but Bond is leaning against Q’s desk, hands shoved into his pockets, which does things to the front placket of his trousers that Q would rather not be thinking about at the moment, but can’t seem to ignore, and his frustration is leaking out of his mouth.

His thoughts are everywhere except where they should be, and he really needs to focus on the code for 003’s new car, but instead he’s thinking about Bond’s bloody distracting trousers, which demand his attention every time Q so much as glances in the agent’s direction.

Bond levers himself off the desk, smirking, the bastard, and the noise of Q-branch resumes around them, slowly. First the click of keyboards, then the low hum of voices, and finally the thrum and squeal of McKetteridge in the car lift, cutting away the worst of the damage to Bond’s car. Bond leans over Q’s desk, right in his face.

“I think you’d be surprised how much control I have,” he murmurs.

Q meets his eyes, glares into unfathomable blue with as much dignity as he can muster.

“I really don’t think I would be.”

Bond quirks an eyebrow, intrigued, and stands to his full height, hands still firmly in his pockets. Of course.

“Is that a challenge?” he says, rolling up onto his toes and back down again, canting his hips.

He knows, Q thinks, he bloody well knows what he’s doing and it isn’t fair. Q squints at him.

“Are you up for it?”

Bond’s face is a mask of indifference, but his eyes dance with barely contained amusement. 

“Are you?” 

Q feels the burn in the tips of his ears. It doesn’t matter how many times Bond does this, doesn’t matter how often they trade innuendo, Q can’t seem to keep the color off his cheeks.

“If there’s nothing else,” Q says, stepping around Bond. He needs a little distance at this point, the man smells infuriatingly good. “I have more pressing matters to attend to.” Like how much of that engine he was going to have to rebuild, for one. And how he was supposed to work all afternoon with a hard-on for another.

Bond steps in close behind, and Q freezes for a split second, enough for him to lean in over his shoulder and murmur into his ear.

“I’m sure you do.” Bond’s shoved up against him, and obviously has a ‘pressing matter’ of his own. At least Q isn’t the only one affected. It’s a small comfort. “I wouldn’t want to keep you from your work. Q.”

Bond’s breath in his ear is the most distracting thing to happen all morning, and that includes Thompson starting a small fire while working with the new flame-retardant fabric coatings.

“Go home, James,” Q murmurs. He can feel Bond’s smirk against his neck.

“Dinner at seven,” he replies under his breath, and has the audacity to tap Q’s arse affectionately before he saunters off, winking at Barnes. She giggles and ducks her head behind her screen, and Q rolls his eyes and narrowly avoids groaning aloud. It would only encourage him.

He does it on purpose, Q knows. He toes the line of professionalism at every opportunity. The man insists on doing everything in his power to ruffle Q’s feathers, and Q desperately wants to be angry about it, but instead finds his mind wandering back to the way his jacket hugs his shoulders, and then thinking about those very shoulders flexing as he lifts Q onto his lap. He glances at the clock, counting the minutes he has left until he can feasibly excuse himself to go home without lifting too many eyebrows.

 

********

 

The aromas wafting out of the kitchen when Q walks in the door must be the ambrosia of the gods. James has been cooking again, which is always a treat, and much more comfortable than dinner out. Q slips his shoes off by the door, hangs the parka that James threatens to burn every other week on the coat tree, and sets his bag down next to the umbrella stand (that holds not umbrellas but a fencing foil, James’ ski poles, a walking stick worn to a satin sheen, and a hunting rifle registered to Quentin Brixby, who doesn’t, technically, exist.)

Q slips into the kitchen on silent feet, and pauses in the doorway. James is standing in front of the cooktop, three different pans going at once. He’s naked to the waist and barefoot, a kitchen towel slung over one shoulder which only highlights the sunkissed skin of his back.

Of course he’d come back from three days in  Abu Dhabi with a tan. Of course he would.

Q’s mouth begins to water, and not just from the smell of a five-star dinner cooking on his hob. He steps behind James and wraps his arms around that broad chest and lays light kisses along his shoulder.

“Welcome home.” Q can hear the beginning of a smile in James’ voice.

“Mmm,” Q hums into his neck. He’s too busy running his nose over the shell of James’ ear to think much about anything else. Three days coming home to an empty flat, three days worrying if he’d come home to an empty flat forever, three days of his partner, his lover, half a world away and on the edge of death while he could do little but watch it unfold. Perhaps it wasn’t James’ self-control that would be tested. Then again, it wasn’t Q’s that was in question.

Q runs his tongue over James’ pulse point, grounding himself in the life that is thrumming just under that tanned skin. He lets his hands drift down, across James’ stomach, and his fingers ghost along the edge of his waistband. James’ breath hitches in his throat, and Q grins into his neck.

“I suppose we could -” James’ eyelids flutter as Q runs his teeth over James’ trapezius muscle and places a sloppy kiss on the very end of his shoulder, then pulls away, leaning over a pot bubbling with cream sauce.

“Dinner smells remarkable,” he says conversationally, as though he weren’t just pressed up against James’ back. All part of the plan.

James huffs, mouth drawing up into his trademark smirk, and he reaches an arm out to pull Q back in for a proper kiss, but Q turns away before James can reach him. 

“Shall I set the table?” Q steps to the cupboard that holds the good plates, and glances over his shoulder. James’ eyes narrow in Q’s direction, and Q smiles coquettishly.

“Oh, I see. This is about this morning, isn’t it?” James says.

“I’ve no idea what you mean. Do you want me to set the table, or shall we eat over the sink like heathens?”

“Oh, no,” James says, and Q recognizes the mischievous glint in his eye, “By all means, set the table. I’ve been looking forward to having a nice, long, relaxing dinner. Fetch the candles while you’re at it, darling.” The absolute cheek.

 

Dinner is en exercise in flirtatious glances and innuendo. The tension snaps and dances between them, but neither moves to slacken it until after James has dumped the last plate in the sink. He crowds Q into the corner, and the heat of him nearly melts Q’s resolve as James’ cock presses into the crease of his thigh. Q’s just as hard, has been all through dinner, but he ducks out from under James’ arm and steps away, hands on hips.

“You can’t just flirt with me and walk away,” James grumbles.

“I can.” Q crosses his arms over his chest, and enjoys the scandalized look that passes across James’ face. 

“Q?” James eyes him suspiciously.

“Well?” Q raises an eyebrow. 

James purses his lips for several moments, then his expression clears and he shrugs.

“Alright.” He walks stiffly out to the sitting room and a few moments later, Q hears the unmistakable sound of a football game drifting into the kitchen.

Q is baffled. He fully expected James to growl and simply bowl over Q’s resolve by sheer force of will. He’d rather been hoping for that, actually. The game of cat-and-mouse, playing at pursuit, had always been one James enjoyed. To have him drop out entirely puts Q on something of the wrong foot.

He frowns at the plates and forks and pans as he does the washing up and listens to the television in the other room drone on. 

James does not come back into the kitchen before Q’s finished.

Q is half-afraid he’s done something terribly wrong, and the roiling in his gut is unbearable. He pads carefully out to the sitting room and sees James sprawled on the sofa, feet propped up on the coffee table and crossed at the ankle. Q would be worried, now, except for the almost imperceptible smirk lifting the far corner of James’ lips.

Is he -  _ oh _ . Q suddenly sees exactly how the challenge is going to play out.

Q rolls his shoulders, takes a deep, silent breath, and walks into the room, stopping directly in front of the television. He leans his head over as far as he can, exposing the length of his neck, something he knows James appreciates, and runs his fingers up into his hair and back again, catching them on the collar of his cardigan, and following the hem down to the zipper. He glances at James through half-closed eyes. He’s making a valiant effort pretending to lean around Q’s frame to watch the game, but if the subtle twitch in his nose is any indication, Q has his full attention.

Q sighs and moves off toward the bedroom. It won’t be subtle, but Q’s not going for subtle at this point, he’s going for efficacy. He taps a few buttons on the entertainment system, queueing up a ridiculous playlist. It’s not his regular fare, but it’s exactly what this situation requires.

He peels out of his cardigan, removes his tie, ruffles his hair, undoes the top two buttons on his shirt. He peeks into the mirror, and, satisfied that he looks appropriately disheveled, snags a condom and the lube out of the bedside table, slips them into his pocket and sets the timer on the entertainment system for sixty seconds.

He wanders out into the sitting room, and although James’ head does not move, his eyes are obviously on Q. Good. He flips the television off with one dramatic flourish and stalks toward James before he can protest.

 

********

 

James has no idea what Q is up to when he walks out of the bedroom, but whatever it is will be interesting. He keeps his head pointed toward the television, but watches Q curiously out of the corner of his eye as he approaches. The man is artfully disheveled to the point that it borders on ridiculous. When Q turns the screen off with a dramatic flair and stalks toward him, James is spellbound.

It isn’t until Q swings his leg over James’ that he has any indication of what Q is up to, and then the first few notes of music float through the flat, and Q’s intent is unmistakable. It’s  _ Personal Jesus _ and James almost wants to laugh, but then Q is dragging his finger down James’ chest at the first echo-y syllables of  _ ‘reach out and touch faith _ ,’ and good  _ god _ . Q’s hips rock forward in sinuous little waves, millimeters from contact with James’ thighs, and as the baseline begins in earnest, he does something with his spine that makes him look like water, all fluid ripples. James presses his hands into the sofa cushions to keep from reaching out and touching. 

Q’s hands trail over his body, smoothing down over his chest, pausing at the buttons of his shirt to pop two more open, then dust across his stomach. He inches ever closer, each undulation of his body closing the distance until he’s vexingly, tantalizingly  _ almost _ brushing James’ thighs with his. He sits, stock still, his breath coming in time with the downbeat, letting the heat pool behind his navel, tingle across his skin, and drinking in every last detail. 

Q’s eyes are dark with hunger, and christ if that doesn’t go straight to James’ already straining cock. Q climbs up on the sofa so his knees are on either side of James’ hips, and he leans forward so that he is infinitesimally close, but not touching. Not yet. Aside from the finger he’d run down James’ chest, Q hasn’t touched him once since the music began.

His fingers dance across his neck, touching where James should press his mouth: the pulse points, adam’s apple, that delicious spot right behind his ear. Q tosses his head back, and stretches his arms above his head, then ghosts long fingers over his arm, across his neck again, and with a flick pops the last two buttons on his shirt open, revealing an expanse of creamy skin that James desperately wants to taste. 

His tongue darts over his lips, remembering how Q’s skin feels under them, and Q leans in, his breath hot on James’ ear, and murmurs ‘put me to the test,’ just barely audible above the music. Q plants a hand on the wall behind James’ head and pulls his chest up level with James’ face, and Q’s cologne, all spice and citrus, invades his senses. It’s all he can do to keep from closing the few centimeters between them and licking a long stripe over Q’s stomach.

Q’s fingers find his nipples and tease them into nubs and James groans with the need to run his tongue over them. 

Q looks down after a moment, pleased with himself, and leans in, claiming James’ lips with his own. James lets Q guide the kiss, relaxing into it, allowing the wet velvet heat of Q’s mouth to be the only thing in the entire universe. Q sinks slowly onto James’ lap, and the barest brush of friction against his still-clothed cock snaps his eyes open wide and he sucks in a breath.

“Christ.”

“Mmm, noooo,” Q drawls into James’ mouth. He begins trailing open mouthed kisses along his jaw. “I think I’d settle for ‘sir’ though.”

“You must be joking,” James huffs, and Q bites his ear, hard enough to hurt. The pinch makes his skin sing and James hisses in surprise then adds, “sir,” through his teeth.

“Better.” Q smirks against his cheek, then rolls his hips forward and up, the friction against his cock is almost-but-not-quite enough, and it drags a growl from James’ throat.

He wants to lift Q up, carry him to the bedroom, ravage him until they’re both semi-conscious. He wraps his hands around Q’s waist instead and grinds his hips up into Q’s, seeking the pressure he craves.

“Mm-mm,” Q says, shaking his head and pulling back. “Naughty.” He pinches James’ left nipple hard, twisting just enough to send fireworks zinging across his skin and down into his leaking cock. 

“Q, for god’s -” Q twists James’ other nipple, and James sucks a breath in through teeth clenched tight, jaw muscle pulsing with the pressure.

“Bad memory too. Shame.” Q chastises, and James wonders what the hell he’s gotten himself into. 

“Sir,” James corrects, and Q smiles a predatory smile and smooths his thumbs over James’ chest. “Please.”

“Please what?” Q says, dipping down to lick at the now over-sensitive nubs.

“Oh,  _ fuck _ .”

“That was the general idea, yes.”

“Then get  _ on _ with it.”

“Does that mean I win?” Q asks, his mouth rambling down, down, over James’ stomach toward his navel. James pulls his feet off the coffee table and plants them on the carpet, his knees falling open in invitation. Q slides off the sofa in one sinuous move to kneel between James’ legs. He sits primly, waiting, watching, patient. 

“Oh, that’s not fair.”

“Never said I played fair. I play to win. Have I?”

James stares at Q, kneeling between his spread thighs, and almost says no. Almost. But Q pulls his lower lip between his teeth, and christ, Q hasn’t even taken off his clothes yet, and James is straining against his trousers, pants damp and clinging.

“Yes,” James bites out. “Sir.”

The light in Q’s eyes is mischief incarnate, but James doesn’t have a great deal of time to process it before Q begins tracing the outline of his navel with his tongue, then continues down, and it’s all James can do to keep his hips from rolling up, chasing the friction he craves.

Q pauses at James’ waistband, tongueing at the skin where it disappears under the fabric as he opens James’ flies with dexterous fingers and pulls both trousers and pants down to James’ ankles in one swift, sure move.

James’ cock bobs free, slapping against his stomach and leaving a small sticky patch of fluid where it touches. Q’s tongue is there in moments, lapping it up, and then - oh, then Q slides that talented tongue along the underside of his cock from base to tip and James wants to fist his hands in Q’s hair and bury himself in Q’s mouth, needs the warm wet slide of it,  _ now _ . Q pulls him into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks around him, and the pull and drag of Q’s pink lips wrapped around his cock is relief and tension coiled together, snaking through his veins, and James drowns in it.

His head falls back as Q takes him all the way down, swallowing around him, his tongue settling against the vein and moving in waves along his length. His entire consciousness is being pulled into Q’s mouth, and the fuse of his orgasm flares to life, hissing along his spine, through his gut.

“Q. I-”

Q smooths a hand up and over James’ stomach, and pulls off with a decadent pop. He nuzzles into the coarse hair at the base, then pulls James forward by his knees, pushing his legs up and back. The pull in his thighs burns, but not uncomfortably.

“Hold,” Q says. 

James wraps his hands under his knees and Q surges up to kiss him hard. James needs to hold him in place, kiss his taste out of Q’s mouth, but Q is already gone, leaving wet kisses along his thighs, at the head of his cock. Lower, to take James’ balls into his mouth one at a time, roll them over that sinful tongue. 

Then there’s a slick finger running up the cleft of his arse, sliding over his hole, the soft touch, slick with lube, teasing the tight muscle into relaxing. Q presses a kiss into his thigh as he slips his finger inside to the first knuckle, then just as quickly pulls it out again. Over and over, Q circles, presses, withdraws, and it’s the most exquisite kind of torment.

When Q finally presses all the way inside, James groans. He’s sweat-slick, and his fingers are beginning to slip out from under his knees. His right knee gives out completely a moment later and his leg lands heavily on Q’s shoulder. Distantly, he wonders if that earns him a bite to his thigh.

“Almost,” Q murmurs. “God, look at you.” He mouths along the inside of James’ thigh, fingernails ghosting over the baby-fine hairs on the other side. James shivers, clenching around the finger still pressed deep inside him. Q chuckles.

A few gentle thrusts and a second finger joins, scissoring, stretching, opening him up. James takes himself in hand, fist moving over his cock in time with Q’s fingers moving in and out of his arse.

“Alright,” Q whispers, and shifts back a few centimeters.

Q’s fingers slide out slowly, and the emptiness they leave behind is its own kind of torment. James looks down at Q, who frantically unbuttons his flies. He pushes his trousers down roughly, and then there’s the unmistakable crackle of a condom wrapper being opened and the snap as Q rolls it into place. Q is pressed against him again, cock sliding between the mounds of his arse, and he lets a self-satisfied smirk play with his lips.

James groans, wriggles against Q, and Q grins as he lines up and presses his cock inside. 

“Greedy,” Q admonishes fondly. 

He pauses as James adjusts to the feeling of Q filling him. He leans forward, pressing his chest to Q’s, and wraps his legs around Q’s slim hips, locking his ankles over Q’s arse. And then Q begins to move, short shallow thrusts at first, then long and deep, brushing over James’ prostate with infuriating irregularity.

James watches as Q fucks into him, the flush of arousal turning his skin pink from navel to shoulder, his breath coming in heavy pants and gasps, eyes wide and dark.

He nips at Q’s lips, too far gone for a kiss, just craving the feel of his mouth. He’s fucking into his hand, now, pressing down against Q’s thrusts, then up into his fist and it lights a fire under the pool of pleasure behind James’ cock and sets it boiling, rushing up and out and exploding between them, and he comes with a long, low moan, coating their stomachs.

Q’s rhythm stutters as James clenches around him, and he thrusts half a dozen more times, then buries himself deep and presses his face into James’ neck.

They lie there, sweaty and sated, for several long moments, breathing each other’s air, James rubbing wobbly hands over Q’s back, under his shirt. He carefully unclasps his ankles and his muscles protest the abuse. He relishes the stiffness, knows he’ll feel it tomorrow, too, and that makes it all the more sweet.

“Can I tell you something?” James asks after their breathing has slowed to almost-normal.

“What’s that?” Q’s eyebrow lifts, skepticism written all over his face.

“That may be the first time I’ve ever enjoyed losing quite so much.”

Q snorts and presses his forehead into James’ chest.

“Git.” Q pushes himself up and pulls out with a hiss. “Come on, we both need a shower, and it’d be a shame to waste all the hot water.”

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr for this fandom (and a couple others) is [here](http://timetospy.tumblr.com).


End file.
